The Journal House
by Turtliverse
Summary: When life gets rough, Kenny stumbles upon a place where he can write his problems.


**Disclaimer: Own South Park? Me? Ahahahaha, you've got to be kidding me.**

**...I'm not full of enough lulz.**

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It all started at the ripe old age of five. That's when I began smelling that horrible smell wafting from the crawlspace under our house that came from the unused vents in the floorboards. After all, in those three months everyone calls summer here in South Park, it's about fifty degrees. A welcome change to the low negatives that plagues the mountain town during the winter.

At the age of five, I was beginning to learn from my older brother Kevin about the ghetto. No other way to put it. Gangs ranging from newbies at the age of twelve, all the way up to the older men in their forties with the scars, swastikas painted on their shoulders, necks and cheeks and their beat up motorcycles and the shotguns. I had also learned a great deal about "mind-changing shit", or, more commonly, drugs. My brother was a genius, or, to me he was, and he was still in grade school at the time!

Here was the thing about the slums, ghetto, poor part of town or the wrong side of the 'tracks, whatever you want to call it. If you see a gang passing, you salute. You just know. And it's proper, and, fuck, it'll keep you from getting your face torn off. Of course, we don't have _many_ gangs, but the ones we have will make you jittery and keep you up at night. The gangs generally had few members, and they generally got the hell outta here within two years of seeing them. Some kids grew out of it, too.

When I was five, my parents started their meth lab. Kevin and I didn't call it meth, but that's what it was. Our once-attractive mother turned into a gaunt figure and our dad was the fucked up piece of shit he always was and deciding what their problem was, was something we called the "toothpaste theory". I suppose it was from our deprivation of toothpaste; we'd never used it in our lives and never planned to and, hell, Kevin knew what toothpaste was, but he never told me its use.

So we went with the toothpaste theory.

The pressure was overwhelming. My clothing, also known as the onslaught of orange that puked in my closet, smelled of the horrid scent of cooking meth. My mom and dad were up for days on end screaming and drinking beer and smoking God-knows-what. Soon we began skipping church more than usual and mom began forgetting to feed us for days on end.

I began shutting myself in my room, locking the door and slipping out the window to escape from the scent. Leaving behind a torn family, fucked up parents and a messed up brother.

I spent a lot of times in the woods back then. I became the best tree climber I think ever crossed South Park. Ice didn't stop me, I just dug my fingernails in and pulled my weight up. After a while, I got through the woods, passed them.

And that's when I saw it.

It was a little, square, vacant house, with painted windows, a breaking screened-in porch and graffiti on it. Not big, bold graffiti, but small pieces, small passages, as if from a novel. And, trust me, I had spent a lot of time learning how to read on my own. No parents to guide me, I was left on my own. I figured I was pretty smart. Moving closer, the graffiti could have been copied straight from a journal. One black window had "I heart AJ!" in it, as if anyone cared. I know I didn't. The concrete porch had been painted with a giant Batman symbol and the Avenger's symbol. Works of art, in my opinion. A sign had been posted in the window that discouraged vandalism, but it seemed no one cared what the police would do.

Hell, it was the slums. The police didn't come here. In fact, they were told to "go to the railroad tracks, stop, turn around and come back." No one dared touch this place, and the only way to get here from the main road was to take a winding, overgrown dirt road through the trees, which was practically suicidal.

In big, bold letters across the biggest window, where the little police sign was, was "**THE JOURNAL HOUSE**" and the title made sense.

It was just that. Some kids' personal journals.

I would come back later, permanent marker in tow.

**A/N: Yes, this story is based on a true story, somewhat. As someone who's moved nearly twice now, I've actually seen a lot of rough houses, because we have to stay in a low price range. This is one of them, and I've dubbed it the Journal House, because it seemed to have all sorts of journal-like entries sprawled on the wall. A shame, considering the interior of the home was nice. **

**Also, yes, my mum and my adopted cousin were on meth for a short period of time, and I remember it fully. I was the first to figure it out, but then again, I was fourteen. It's not exactly hard to figure these things out, in my opinion. A sad time; brought upon my parents' divorce.**

**Also, the smell of meth labs. Ugh. One exploded near my school once, and you could smell it fifteen miles down the road. Having a good memory, I can remember that smell often, and it's just stuck there. One of the worst smells I've smelt in my life, I believe. Sickly sweet.**

**Ghetto, slums, wrong side of the 'tracks, place where all the poor kids roam, gangsta plaza, whatever you wanna call it. Personally, I prefer slums or 'the ghetto'. But whatever works for you.**

**Also, soon there will be diary entries of sorts.**

**-sigh- My intros are always a bit short.**

**Reviews?**


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